From door to door
by Chiara Cadrich
Summary: From a doorstep to another, a hobbit tale and petty fairy romance.
1. The childhood door

The morning sun sends its light rays through a delicate foliage, bathing the garden with a gentle spring torpor. The old hobbit adjusts his straw hat and begins to spade the last furrow for carrots.

A small urchin, not taller than two pumpkins, has hidden behind a century-old elm tree to watch his grandfather.

« What are you doing, GrandDa?

Oh! Here you are, my little scamp, you have escaped your grandmother again! You have her run after you as usual, poor old thing… »

Panting at the rhythm of his spading, the old hobbit monitors the kid with the corner of his eye. At the end of his furrow, he wipes his forehead and agrees to answer:

« Well you see, Gerry, I am preparing next week's supper, while your GrandMa is cooking today's meal… »

But the boy is gone. The grandfather sighs. He sows the seeds and sets a safety net. Finally he cleans up his spade and goes to the shed, at the bottom of the garden. The heavy door is half-open.

The ancestor nods: all the neighborhood kids dream to enter his shed.

For this is not a simple garden shed. The grandfather had affairs in his youth. One day of quarrel with his elders, he ran away in the wilderness with mysterious companions. He was believed dead, but returned one morning, his arms full of gifts, his mind filled with tales of yore and colorful memories. His travels also gave him an extravagant and eclectic taste for unusual art objects and motley ornaments. Under remote skies, he also contracted, they say, some malignant fevers, that may only be cured by strongly fermented nectars. Do not worry for him, Grandpa knows how to heal himself...

To the wondering eyes of his progeny, especially Gerry, the jealously guarded shed tightens treasures, with obscure origins if not positively ill-gotten. Mysterious chests and jute balls are piled besides tools, planks and trays of onions. Fading portraits and strange works adorn the walls. But children may not enter. The round oaken door, heavily polished and burnished by the weather, is nailed with protective talismans, terrifying masks, amulets stolen from exotic distant peoples. The bright colors and threatening forms prohibit access to the sanctuary, even for the boldest.

Yet the little rascal Gerry - a baby hobbit but already a daredevil – has crossed the threshold of the unknown.

Grandfather approaches on tiptoe and glances inside.

Astride a tatter's bag, Gerry is helmed with an old tin pan that has lost its handle. Wielding a sickle, he decimates goblin hordes, riding at the forefront of the King's Guard.

« I already forbade you to come here, GrandDa growls, it's dangerous! »

He removes the tool from the hands of the urchin, whose lower lip trembles beneath a wet and imploring look. Grandpa keeps a stern look. Yet deep inside, he is rather proud of the courage of his grandson, still so small, and the panache of his childhood dreams. Drawn despite himself by the tales gleaned in the old days, he takes the toddler by the hand and installs him on the bench.

Putting a strange leather hauberk on, looking fierce, he sits next to the child. After affording a swig of mixing to clear his memory, he tells him the exploits of Odrazàr, the hero who landed in the distant days of yore, to free the people of Eriador from the yoke of orcs and evil things.

On the threshold of the door, in these moments of eternity, childhood distills its ephemeral delights - the golden hues of a promising morning, the protective fullness of a benevolent adult attention, the quiet intimacy of the shelter, softly lulled with chirps outside, the fascination for a spellbinding tale, scents of seeds and rare perfumes, the assurance of so close a stranger, the immortal glory of the captain of the men of the sea, an adventure thrill at the edge of the unknown...


	2. The gate of dispair

Odrazàr lies in his blood, a spear stuck in his side. After his gestures, the poison has paralyzed his breathing, and now freezes his face in a grin of pain and bitterness.

His companions have been fighting for hours. Their defensive formation, the thangail of heavy Numenorean infantry, has been repelling the assaults throughout their retreat. But the harassment of enemy light archers has been reducing their ranks and endurance, slowly but inexorably.

The campaign has failed. Powerful Numenor will therefore limit its hegemony to the Gwathló basin, from which it draws the material for its high fleets. For a long time, the star-island will not try any more to submit the turbulent hill tribes.

Avacuna is annihilated and has no tears to cry. The young sway on her mind has not yet embraced the bitterness of regret and impotence. Only remains the rage, thundering litany of misfortune. But her soul knows not against whom to direct her fury - the wild tribes, unable to resist plundering temptation or their victim Odrazàr, driven by his uncompromising vision of supremacy.

The savage girl is still crouching above her man's body, tasting the bitter seeds of the fruits of her dashed hopes. Men do not keep their promises when their expectations are excessive.

In the early morning, she takes the deceased in her arms, along with his weapons, and slowly backs to her lair.

A huge flat stone crowns the summit, supported by five megaliths. Only the powerful of Arda could knead this promontory in the first age of the world. A dense forest of low shaggy oaks and gnarled hawthorn covers it. Between gigantic gross rock pillars, tangle millennia roots, stone artful walls, antique interlacing fabrics and braided wicker patterns. Perennials plants proliferate on the walls and ceiling, reinforcing the impression of a natural cave with multiple ramifications.

In these alcoves with motley mosaic, Hillmen tartans pile with rare silk dyes sold at Tharbad's banks, and eternal elven tulle. A boxwood sculpture representing an ibex from the Misty Mountains, polished by the years, seemed to come out of the mists of time beyond memory. Murals evoke deep animal terrors. Ancient spears have nailed them to the wall, freezing their carnivorous appetites, while musical instruments forgotten by men, play their groans of agony. The lair of Avacuna reflects the memory of her years of wandering.

The young woman goes to her bedroom. She ceremoniously burns the bed that housed their love, before arranging a cavity in the rock. Avacuna struggles her bitterness out and releases her pain by digging brittle rock. Hence the alcove will now shelter the mortuary chamber of her unrequited love, her champion, dead for his overweening ambition. She raises his spear and steel sword before a reverent but derisory stack of armor, helmet and bronze greaves, bedecked with egrets and purple plumes.

Avacuna suspends the cloak of the deceased warrior, across the alcove gateway. Through this door that banishes the past, may now finally flow the stream of her tears...


	3. The chime of courage

Gerry goes ahead with the weasel's felted step, muffling the crunch of his bare feet in the snow. The little Hobbit sneaks between small vegetable garden greenhouses, furtive shadow among the shadows of secular elms.

The prince of the neighborhood's urchins silently reaches the shed's threshold. Amulets gaze at him with the corner of their eye - strange masks, animal hieratic figures, their pupils animated by moonlight.

Gerry scans around the ghostly shapes that frost sketches in the branches. An owl's hoot disturbs the quiet winter night. Gerry lets his heart calm down, exhaling plumes of steam.

Since Grandma's departure, Grandpa is not himself any more. He remains prostrate in his chair, he is no longer involved in his garden or his dog Houn1. He even tells no story to Gerry any more. The small hobbit is going to help him, with his little arms and great child's heart - he is to bring back this little portrait, where He and Grandma smile at each other, hanging besides the rakes in the shed.

Gerry inhales a big bowlful of cold air and walks towards the door, under the disapproving masks' gaze. He pushes the door, but it does not yield. Discontent glimmers even seem to agitate the tracery of a small bronze buckler.

But Gerry does not give up! Climbing on the bench, he grabs the handle, a work of distant Erebor.

At this time a dwarven chime launches tart notes from the oaken door in the quiet air of the Shire. During daylight, the petty melody sounds rather perky and friendly, recalling some distant and exotic destination. But now, in the icy darkness, it thunders as an angry warning.

Houn the mastiff, interrupted in his watch, bursts into furious barking. Gerry scoots like a rabbit surprised by the fox! When memories have yet to get some sleep, the shed's door wisely keeps the passage, even when the visitor has good intentions ...

1 Huan is the name of a noble dog that a hero of the first age befreiended to vanquish the werewolves of the Dark Lord. That was a very popular dog name in the Dunedain kingdoms, and the Hobbits continued this tradition. Hence in the collective imagination of the Shire, a menacing mastiff often bears the name of « Houn », wich is the Kuduk form of the Sindarin Huan. Maybe it is also the origin of the word « Hound »?


	4. The doors of the mother

Her face deeply lined and drawn, Avacuna climbs the hillside toward a grove of tall walnut trees planted as a circle, which seem to bend and spread their branches to form a very thick branches dome. At the center, sunlight filters through the wide grooved sheets. She should not cry.

She takes a wry look at the beds of delicate plants arranged in a star around the grove, from which emanates a radiant stream. Flowerbeds alternate chromatic arrangements of flowering plants, vegetable crops and ornamental plants. A sense of order, hidden from human understanding, guides the harmonious and fragile beauty of the species without constraining their invasive vivacity. She should not cry.

The curtain of leaves withdraws at her approach, a majestic portal quivering with life. She swiftly enters the shimmering green vault. Sheltered from the open air, a welling gently leaks among gorse bushes while gurgling a song of serenity and renewal. Myriads of small colorful plants vegetate in the green and golden light that flows from the quivering plant canopy, in the sweet torpor of heady pollens. She should not cry.

At the center of the room sits a hunchback tree, extending over the plantations its two frail but many-fingered branches. It lacks the boughs that once born, fall after fall, bushels of golden fruits, hatched to disseminate life. Its deep brown, smooth and worn bark shows some bright red burls that evoke nearly the body of a tired old woman. Large stone jars, filled with strange and vaguely bright amber liquor, spread fragrances of resin and strawberry. She cannot cry.

The bumpy strain has approached, enfolding Avacuna with her compassionate embrace.

Pain, vast as the forefront of the aurochs, is breaking Avacuna's chest, anxiety closes her throat. A tear, weighing at the corner of her eye, rolls, hard as a rock. It leaves a deep furrow on her cheek, and bitterly blends to the fold of her lips. Another tear falls, then another, a source carries diamonds and, little by little, their fluid strokes melt the pain.

The hard huntress can finally abandon her restraint and spill into the womb of her mother at heart. The arms of a mother, blessed gates of childhood, are always open.


	5. The door slams

Two young hobbits rush down the aisle of the garden, in the autumn winds. The lovebirds took refuge under the eaves of the shed, huddling on the bench. Gerry deploys an enterprising and manly confidence - his protective arm warms the shivering girl. The languishing blue look sometimes lowers, modest and troubled, sometimes rises, curious and anxious, to the threatening glyphs which surround the shed. These talismans nailed to the wall, they say, watch over the cabin since the departure of GrandDa, but the shed's odd reputation is old. Dark secret charms would keep gold, drapes, wonders and equivocal ornaments, the ancestor would have hidden there.

But rain and red elm leaves soak the shivering young hobbits. The gallant, undeterred by all the dangers, must shelter his beautiful hobbit lass -he activates the dwarf lock, mocks the magic chime and drives her into the cabin. But the sour tune does not ring with her benign and blasé usual tone. An imperceptible warning tone, a stealth dissonance, an inverted chord, let Gerry with the fleeting sensation of an elusive doubt.

But seducers do not bother with doubts. The gentle-hobbit apprentice graciously acts as host of the storeroom where are gathered, in the nest of the Grandfather's first loves, items that reminded him of his late wife, and peacefully evoked the memory of her graces. His best bottles, probably hidden somewhere there, greatly supported the memory of the old Hobbit in the end. GrandDa's slight kleptomania had cluttered his hiding place with antiquated ornaments and useless objects, but precious and pleasant to the eye.

Soon an ancient oil lamp animates GrandDa's tools and trinkets with a flickering life. On the outside, wind is roaring and rain is lashing. The beautiful adorns with tulle and necklaces, now a lovely princess enthroned on the imaginary brocade cushions - actually hazelnuts bags and cloth balls. The young people draw near each other, sensitive to the harmless crackling cataract on the shed's roof, that houses their intimacy. Gerry, acting gentle-hobbit, begins to warm his girlfriend, who willingly surrenders to his princely protective comfort.

The languid and conquered young lady advances her lips... He bends on her... and anxiously straightens up when he realizes they are observed!

GrandMa and GrandPa are staring, with shining eyes and a smirk. The portrait has turned shabby, but a mocking glow is dancing at the bottom of their pupils.

Irritated, the young hobbit jumps, unhooks the painting and quickly hides it under a pile of dusty books. When he turns back to his beautiful lass, his mouth heart-shaped and his seductive locks pointing up, he meets an azure gaze, annoyed and impatient.

But the gallant is a lord in his own house. His charming smile and captivating verve are quick to bring the offended girl back to her romantic inclinations. Lying on her side, he lists her charms from the petty feet up to the perfect oval face. Having reached halfway, the saucy conqueror is skillfully exacerbating her thrill when a curious rattling interrupts.

The clock awoke. The old dwarven clock from the Blue Mountains, frozen for years, has set into motion, slowly at first. As calculated with hesitation, the machine hiccups, stops and resume her syncope. The young hobbits resume their tête-à-tête, but the clicking interrupts, imposing its own erratic pace. The spirit of the beautiful lass is straying and Gerry's confidence is wearing out.

Then the device goes racing. Two wooden dwarves burst from their cabin, waving their hammers, and strike on an anvil for eleven burdensome times. Finally, a semi-circular gate suddenly opens, expelling a grotesque dwarf head with an obscene nose. Gerry's hand clenches with surprise, pulling a cry of pain from his companion.

Slowly the gate closes on the voyeur and grimacing puppet, whereas the shed's door slams. The outraged and bruised hobbit lass returns to her mother's, fleeing the shed's ambiguous delights...


	6. Welcome to the pleasure door

Hazel, elderberries and wild pruneliers surround the promontory where no one dares to tread. The appalling cries that rise from the stone door prevent any curiosity. The screams of terror remind of the protests of the pork led to the butcher. Yet Gerry climbs the slope.

- "I am being killed, I am being torn from myself! Who will have mercy on a poor Badger's coat?

- Please will you cease this mess, you naughty wolverine! Is not your lust responsible for your pain?

- Is it my fault if Grimberthe my lady took refuge under the gorse? "

A savage girl is anxiously but firmly bending on the patient, who is claiming to suffer martyrdom and is complaining incessantly. Keeping a strong grip on the rowdy badger, the woman removes one by one, with energy and dexterity, gorse thorns planted in the back of the patient. Auburn curls frame her long oval face with an elven grace. Some sophisticatingly bold tresses domesticate her long rebel mane. Her pallor is enhanced by thousands of freckles that twinkle like brown fireflies by a clear summer evening. Her almond-shaped and feline eyes, with deep and hypnotic azure, land on Gerry who, frozen by the charm, barely notices the long pointed and mobile ears of the girl.

The young woman and the Hobbit contemplate frozen for a long time. Gerry hears the roar of the Dorthonion1 lynx when the world was young, singing the snowy mountains freedom or lurking in the deep forests. The call of the Wilderness rises, compelling and vital, but the Hobbit does not discern whether the injunction induces to kill to feed the cubs or unite with the female to produce new ones. When Avacuna gazes at the Hobbit, her every move irresistibly evokes the limpid grace and flexible strength of the marauding feline. She moves silently, perched on the tip of her long bare feet, covered with a beige fur, and only the toes of which, muscular, sharply clawed, adhere to any surface without leaving a trace. Her linen tunic seems to reflect the lights and colors around, harmonizing with the tawny tones of Avacuna's hair when she gets angry, or blending with the forest shades when she flows with nonchalance in the thickets. Her face betrays the predator's everlasting watch, especially when twitch her long ears with dark hairy plume, or quivers her short mustache.

The savage girl contemplates the child-man with the blended lust of the predator and the female in heat. But her patient, maintained by a relentless grip, gets vehemently impatient:

- "Will you let a poor badger suffer a hundred deaths before relieving him? »

Avacuna, as whipped by this selfish ingratitude, turns snapping to the immobilized patient:

-« Do you have any idea of lady badger's suffering when she gives birth to the fruit of your attentions? Therefore do suffer somehow, you who did not hesitate to pursue her with your attentions even into the gorse bushes! »

The young woman resumes her work once again, tearing all together cries of pain and long spines. When she is finished, she coats the animal's back with a sticky poultice balm. Her magnetic eyes gaze again at Gerry:

- "Suffering too much makes sour, suffering not enough makes fool. What is your suffering, mortal child? "

Gerry has regained control of his senses and the mastering of Hobbit's rhetoric:

- Most Hobbits suffer from silliness as well as sour stomach. May you deduce we have suffered too much to overlook pleasures, but not enough to fear a lack for them. "

The girl raises a delighted eyebrow - this young Hobbit brilliantly handles paradoxes! The spark of beasty desire that Gerry glimpses in that look somewhat tied his stomach. But Avacuna grabs him by the elbow, smiles kindly and walks away with him, adopting the playful tone of the Hobbit and abandoning Grimbert with his recriminations.

The door to the alcove closes on fascinated Gerry, who feels still unclear whether he would end amazed or devoured...

1 Mountains of the north of Beleriand, covered with pine forests, at the first age of Middle Earth.


	7. The portal of bitterness

A strong wind, heavy with storm promises, ruffles the elms and chases the summer wetness. Gerontius strides on the garden' aisles, straightening a plant and pulling weeds. He walks amidst furrows with his august cultivator's step, up to the shed. The round door's undecided brown is dotted with lucky charms nailed on the old wood. When a young rascal dares to hang at the bell, a dwarven chime sounds with a perky tune that evokes some distant and exotic destination.

But today, when the petty music plays, a gaping threshold emerges in Gerry's memory. The gate of a dwarven city, he once visited, casts a terrible shadow on the facade of his familiar shed. Memories come flooding in his troubled soul.

A solemn arc, a carved hemisphere of seven layers with discrete geometric and harmonic patterns stands out like a rising sun, supported by two bearded stone giants. Their harsh looks, furrowed by the years, are enough to guard the entry. The rocky shoulder from the mountain splits into two powerful branches, just above the door, thus topped with a pale impressive façade of a hundred feet. From the gaping and dumb door escapes the horror of death.

The hobbit lacks breathing, transported to the very roots of the world. From the top of this portal, the proud and bloody history of the dwarf people contemplates Gerry, vanquished by his memories. His youthful recklessness rests here, buried with his unfortunate companions, because they followed the dreams of two great kings.

One cannot leave his own threshold with impunity, nor pursue the adventure without it pursuing you in turn with your most painful memories.


	8. The round door

Gerontius is mending his old shed, sawing and nailing amid the rags, sweeping and tidying under the connivance gaze of his grandparents. The house creaks and protests like an old skittish badger. Tonight our hobbit will open a bottle of Old Fence he just came to find hidden under the subfloor. Tonight the illuminated cabin will shine like the festivals of the summer solstice. Tonight the casket of his former flames will dapper. The hobbit prepares a surprise for the return of his wife. Tonight she will land at the shores of his childhood, the last refuge of his memory, to the very roots of his life force.

His beloved left before dawn on a pilgrimage to visit her elven friends in the hills. She will return with handfulls of gifts and relics of her past lives.

Gerry has mended, cleaned, decorated, searched among the Grandfather's trinkets, provided room for his wife's treasures. The shed has delivered some forgotten secrets. He has set the table, lit the wood stove and prepared some elven fashion dishes, humming tunes of yesteryear.

The day is declining. Waiting feeds desire. Lush grass chokes steps sounds of heavily laden ponies. Gerry opens the door. The golden light slips a helping ray to the garden.

Radiant Adamanta Took approaches the threshold, her eyes full of twinkling and her arms loaded with parcels. Her round belly advances at the center of the round door. Their small world is going to find its new center of revolution. A new seed is rooting at the source of their inner world.


	9. The door to knowledge

Gerry empties the shed.

The relics have been craming in the dust. The cabin is full of trinkets, like the skull of a venerable grandsire's full of memories - the most valuable, most intimate, slowly improve, deeply buried under layers of decorum and pretense. The small shed has not enough room to house the relics that his beloved Avacuna had gathered over centuries in her mound-house and the Elves continue to bring her.

He must sort. With a heavy heart, Gerry continues his work, each discovery plunging him into the maze of intertwined pasts. When he emerges, his guilt swells up to the pile of the discarded treasures. To choose is to give up - but giving up taints his respect for his wife, or amputate a part of himself...

Some squeaking pulls him out of his embarrassment: a little rascal is slipping past the old door. With a hesitant stride, Isengrin is tweeting of pure joy in the cave of wonders. In the midst of so many trinkets and ornaments, the little hobbit, without any hair on her little chubby feet, focuses on an old pan, bumpy and grip-less, laughs and makes a helm of it...

His dad feels the embrace of a giant cutting off his breath, so that he must hold on the old knotty oak door. His son follows his footsteps, fascinated by the same memories of the past. Can he deprive him of this porch, that has always reminded him of the essential ?

Gerontius has made a decision. Now seconding his father the Thain to lavish his attention to the Shire, he took "some pebbles in his pockets." A simple idea, a strong idea, a new idea - an wizard idea - came up to him.

X-X-X

With the help of his wife, Gerry has resolved to open a place dedicated to the raising of the younger generations, where all these remarkable items from the past, would be exposed to the benefit of all. Thus on his own money, he has had a beautiful building, covered with cots, built at Great Smial. He stored there the treasures from the shed of his paternal grandfather. Most small items and relics of the Shire area, that the grandfather had gathered, are exposed there in memory of his grandsire. Finally the wonders retained by Avacuna found a shelter worthy of their long history.

They named it the House of Mathoms. Mathom is a Kuduk or Hobbitic term, which means any ornamental, symbolic or prestige item. Some mathoms have passed from hand to hand so many times, that their initial function has long been forgotten. Later, the House of Mathoms will welcome donations whenever a Hobbit, inviting many friends for his birthday, gets a cluttering mass of gifts in his smial.

But for now, the clan chiefs are gathered around the Took and the Mayor of Michel Delving. Some of the leaders, daunted and pragmatic, fought the idea. But all had to bow to Avacuna, Adamanta the inflexible. They would hardly admit that, but most will understand the importance of this place, when a small hand slips in their to beg for "a story, Grandpa please".

Meanwhile Avacuna lets her "little wolf" Isengrin struggle with the dwarven bell, and opens the door of knowledge, the old rotten oak studded with masks and strange glyphs...

Note : The expression from Bywater « Get some pebbles in one's pockets » means « Acquire some wisdom ».


	10. Last door

Strong strides are crunching on the driveway's gravel in the evening air. The little hobbits are scattered like a flock of sparrows, hustled by their elder:

- "Haro, you whippersnappers! Back to your smials! Soup is simmering on the hearth and your elder is expecting to tell his story! »

A brat cautiously walks away and sings by dragging spineless glances at Belladonna:

-« _Vile daughter fairy,_

_With her wands_

_In the woods dreary_

_She awaits you._

_Great evils hands_

_Woe betide you !_ »

Belladonna represses a sad smile, takes her big voice and replies, grabbing a branch of hazel:

- "Out with you! To your hole, Fred Sandyman! By my wand beware the Mewlip! »

Cries of ospreys rise, as acute as a plaintive grinder wheel, and disperse while exorcising the threat up to the enlightened family smials thresholds.

Belladonna pushes the big gate of the House of Mathoms. A resigned chime welcomes the daughter of the house with a caressing air. The Hobbit girl walks in the darkness of the rooms. Drapes bend before her with many soothing. Proud and fatherly smiles animate masks when she passes. Elven dresses gracefully bow. Silver trinkets blink with a discreet accomplice glittering:

- "Do you remember? We taught you dreaming and curiosity. The patina of our woodwork instructed you with patience and modesty. We are steeped in wilderness - we used to frighten you, but you tamed your fears while befriending our gold. We have revealed a part of yourself. We are the backbone of your roof. »

Belladonna, the offspring of Thain of the Shire and Avacuna the fairy, advances confident under the wings of a great eagle of wood and paper.

Each familiar room has consolidated the building of her mind. Every bit of memory, told or dreamed, strengthened her confidence in life. The shadowy and mysterious corners that still exist in the House of Mathoms, among the trinkets and relics, calls to adventure in vast Middle-earth and justify the hope to find still more wonders in this world or beyond.

Her parents left her. Her many siblings desperately mourn them. The couple's long life had finally suggested their eternity. At Tuckboroughs, nobody dares move or change anything in the apartments of the Thain, who seems still to sit on his sculpted chair, scrutinizing the heart and mind of the assembled guests. It looks like he is still dwelling among his kin, ensuring harmony between the factions, advising his peers, scolding and pushing the youth forward.

Leur joie intime reviendra. On dit qu'ensemble le vieux couple fête l'arrivée du printemps renouvelé, parmi les fées et les lucioles, en un lieu hors du temps et des souffrances de ce monde. Belladone en est certaine. Car le carillon de la vieille porte, témoin des émois de tant de jours, n'a rien perdu de sa fraîche insouciance.

Their intimate joy will be back. It is said that together the old couple celebrates the arrival of renewed spring, amidst fairies and fireflies in a place out of time and suffering of this world. Belladonna is certain of that. For the chime of the old door, that witnessed the emotions of so many days, has lost none of its refreshing carelessness.


End file.
